Simply Because It's There?

By

Michael J. Ybarra

Updated July 23, 2010 12:01 a.m. ET

Pokhara, Nepal

It's a grim testament to the lethality of alpinism that the first thing you see walking toward the International Mountain Museum here is a stone monument to those who never made it back from the hills.

ENLARGE

There's only one way to understand the motivation to risk it all climbing the world's highest mountains, such as Annapurna, above.
Getty Images

On a clear day (and I didn't have a single one over several days here) you can see the hills themselves: three of the world's tallest peaks—Dhaulagiri, Annapurna, Manaslu—and, not nearly so high but far more beautiful, the double pyramid of Machhapuchhre.

Climbers often talk about the Greater Ranges—the world's tallest mountains, such as those in the Andes or Alaska (where heights above 20,000 feet are not remarkable), in contrast to the Alps or the Rockies (where 13,000 feet is big). The greatest of the Greater Ranges is the Himalaya, where there are more than 100 peaks taller than 23,000 feet, and 14 so-called "8,000-meter peaks," towering above 26,000 feet—the most well-known being Everest.

The deadliest, though, is Annapurna, the world's 10th-highest mountain, with a reputed fatality rate of 40%. This spring I spent several weeks on a climbing expedition in the Annapurna Sanctuary, a circular basin dominated by its namesake. The expedition wasn't a great success and I had plenty of time to ponder the prayer-flag-draped chortens, or rock piles, memorializing climbers who've died there. I found a quote on Anatoli Boukreev's chorten especially touching: "Mountains are not stadiums where I satisfy my ambition to achieve," he said. "They are the cathedrals where I practice my religion."

Sadly, not long after I left, yet another mountaineer lost his life on Annapurna: Spaniard Tolo Calafat.

I was therefore eager to see how the Mountain Museum here tried to explain this strange sport to a general audience. Many of the world's great climbing centers—Chamonix, France; Courmayeur, Italy; Talkeetna, Alaska—have museums that chart the history and evolution of alpinism. Most, alas, are a bit lackluster.

The Mountain Museum, which opened in 2004, is the best of the bunch. Partly, that's because the institution does a fine job of exploring the different dimensions of mountains—physical, cultural and athletic.

One gallery, for example, provides a rich look at the many tribes that populate the Himalaya, the Sherpas being only the most famous. A fascinating display pairs recent photos of Himalaya villagers with old photos of villagers from the Alps. In both, women use straps across their foreheads to carry loads that would crush a modern backpacker. The really surprising thing is that some of the European photos are less than half a century old.

Another hall offers a tour of the 26,000-foot peaks, explaining their geology and significance to local people with the help of photographs. And a series of images from Google Earth shows how the haze that obscured the mountains from Pokhara during my stay was the result of pollution drifting over from China.

But it was the climbing gallery that I really wanted to see.

Annapurna was the first 26,000-foot peak to be climbed. Maurice Herzog and Louis Lachenal summited the mountain in 1950. Herzog lost his gloves on the descent; the duo spent a harrowing night bivouacked in a crevasse. Frostbite cost both men their toes and Herzog most of his fingers as well. Herzog's account, "Annapurna," is the best-selling climbing book in history. (Considering how badly Herzog was mauled by the mountain, I found it a little weird that the museum named its outdoor climbing wall in his honor.)

An exhibit of the equipment from that era sent shivers down my spine: Crampons that looked like something you might make in high-school metal shop, leather boots, waist-high wooden ice axes.

It was 20 years before Annapurna was climbed again. It's still a serious summit, although many of its suitors are something less than serious.

Climbing used to be a calling. Now it's often a business. A guide friend of mine has a client who had never climbed a mountain in his life but decided he wanted to do the Seven Summits—the highest peak on each continent, which in recent years has become almost as trendy as triathlons or "adventure" races. The would-be Edmund Hillary walked into a mountaineering shop in Washington, asked what equipment he would need for the seven summits, and slapped down enough cash to buy an SUV.

This commercialization has led to the trashing of the mountains. The museum has a dismaying display of the detritus that expeditions have left on Everest: discarded oxygen bottles, empty fuel cans, enough old ropes to circle the earth.

One thing the museum doesn't attempt to explain—perhaps for the better—is why someone would risk all to climb a pile of rock and ice. To understand that, you have to go to the mountains themselves. Or at least base camp.

This copy is for your personal, non-commercial use only. Distribution and use of this material are governed by our Subscriber Agreement and by copyright law. For non-personal use or to order multiple copies, please contact Dow Jones Reprints at 1-800-843-0008 or visit www.djreprints.com.